is wrong with her?” Sir Henri asked in a quiet voice.
“I do not know,” Iana answered honestly. She thought it must be lack of proper food and the fact that Tam had been carried about all her life instead of learning to walk. It could be something else, an illness the child had been born with or a combination of fear and deprivation that caused her to be so. “But she is getting better, I believe.”
He looked both sad and hopeful. Why would he care? Iana wondered. Why should it matter to him whether the babe improved or not? She had seen men totally indifferent when their own female children perished. Despite her intentions to avoid it, Iana’s heart warmed toward this gentle knight who looked upon a peasant’s babe with concern in his eyes.
She smiled at him, only to see his expression change on the instant.
“Someone comes,” he announced in a whisper. “Sit where you are and do not move. Ev, crawl to your right and hide behind those bushes. Keep your blade ready, Son.”
Before Iana knew what had happened, the knight had disappeared silently into the brush to her left, the blanket he had worn left in a wad upon the ground.
She sat alone, Tam in her lap, the fish slowly browning over the small fire nearby. Abandoned.
The racket of someone approaching, leaves crackling underfoot, terrified her into action. She did the only thing she could do. Tumbling Tam upon the wadded blanket, Iana quickly picked up a rock the size of her fist and turned toward the sound of the intruder.
Chapter Four
Her back to the stream, Iana stood, feet braced apart, her skirts concealing Tam from whatever might emerge from the forest. Be it animal or man, she prepared herself to dash out the brains of it, should it dare approach. She sucked in a deep breath and held it as she hefted the rock in her hand.
“Eh! Here, Woad. I thought she’d be headin’ fer th’ water.”
The greedy-looking man from the village plowed through the brush, grinning at Iana, showing gaps where his front teeth should be. He was enormous, his stomach hanging over his belt, his legs like tree trunks. She did not recall his being so dreadfully big.
A mere ghost of a fellow, skin and bones and stringy white hair, followed him into the small clearing.
The large, shaggy-haired one propped his hands on his hips and wrinkled his brows, attempting to menace her, she supposed.
“We’ll be havin’ the balance of that siller now, lass. Dinna be stingy wi’ it.”
Iana shook her head, glaring at him.
“If ye’ve nae more siller, then we’ll see what else ye’ll offer us fer our trouble. Got treasure under th’ skirts there, ha’ ye, lassie?”
“You’ll have naught from me,” she declared. Where the devil was that knight? Henri might not be able to defend her, but the least he could have done was left her his knife. She weighed the rock again, balancing it, adjusting her grip. It would have to do.
The ghostlike one crept forward even as Shaggy stepped closer, tsking at her weapon as if it were but a pinecone she held.
Suddenly the bushes behind the two men came alive. Henri and Everand burst through, blades flashing hither and yon like rapidly struck sparks off flint.
Howls of rage sent birds flying, small beasts scurrying. Iana almost stumbled backward over Tam. Quickly she crouched, scooped up the babe and hid behind the nearest large tree so they would not be trampled.
Openmouthed, she watched. Lightning-quick steel sliced through worn homespun and leather as if it were butter. The two blades were everywhere at once with no pause.
Next she knew, the two thieves stood bare as the day they were hatched, cowering, whining, hands shaking as they covered what they considered their most valuable parts. Iana trembled with laughter and relief.
Henri, still wearing only his loincloth, teased the chest of the shaggy one with the point of his dagger. Truly, the reiver looked a proper beast, with dark hair covering his shoulders and even his back. A ghastly sight.
“Your hide would make a warm pelt, I’d wager,” Henri observed in a menacing growl, slowly shaving a blade-width’s path across the area over the man’s heart. He then wiped the blade upon the man’s bushy beard. “But it would take years to leach out the stink.”
“Please, sar,” Shaggy begged, “we didna mean nae harm. Let us gae and we’ll stay gone.”
Henri turned to Everand. “What think you, my friend? Should we kill them here, or let them go, and give chase? Do you fancy the hunt?” He nodded as if greatly looking forward to the taunting, giving Everand a clue to the answer he expected, since the lad kenned only French.
Everand bobbed his own head, wearing a look of glee, his small knife holding the ghostie’s chin as high as it would go.
“Twenty paces lead, then. Give us a good hunt and we’ll make it a clean kill. Lie down and whimper, I shall skin you alive. Can you count?”
“Aye,” Shaggy croaked, his eyes wide with fear. Ghostie whimpered.
“Off you go on the count of three! One…two…three!” Henri shouted and gave a war whoop any Highlander would envy. Everand chased through the bushes behind the men, shrieking like a banshee all the while.
Iana fell back from her kneeling position, laughing so hard her sides ached. Tam clung to her like a frightened kitten.
Henri crouched beside them, his smile wide. “You are all right, I assume.”
“A-aye, I am well,” she gasped, hardly able to catch her breath. “How in heaven’s name did you do that?”
“But a game,” he said modestly. “It is better played with swords, but we made do well enough.”
“I should say so! They’ll not slow down right soon, if ever.”
He stood and held out his hand. The sight of his muscles shining with sweat shot a hot tingle of appreciation right down the middle of her. For an instant, she could not tear her gaze away.
His soft chuckle warned her that he had noticed her fascination. Iana immediately shut her eyes, cursing herself for her wayward thoughts. She ignored his offer of assistance.
When she dared to look again, he had retreated to the edge of the water and begun wading in, his back to her. With a will of their own, her eyes immediately focused upon his uncovered nether cheeks. “Och, my Lord!” she breathed in absolute awe.
“Oui?” He looked over his left shoulder and raised one dark brow. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
What is it? he asks. Iana scoffed. Lust was what it was. Pure, unadulterated lust. And she should be ashamed of herself. Not only ashamed, but terrified to be thinking what she was thinking. Not for promise of paradise should she entertain desire for any man. Such would be her undoing and that was a fact.
“Nothing,” she replied, still a bit breathless, keeping her gaze
